


Bear the Pain (as the Gods Intended)

by mustehelmi



Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Marvel, Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: 5+1 Things, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Deadpool being Deadpool, Developing Relationship, Drugged Peter Parker, Friendship, Getting to Know Each Other, Hurt Peter Parker, Hurt Wade Wilson, Hurt/Comfort, Immortal Wade Wilson, Kidnapped Peter Parker, Loneliness, M/M, One Shot, Peter Parker Whump, Pre-Relationship, Ritual Sacrifice, Trust, Whump, Whumptober 2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-09
Updated: 2020-10-09
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:27:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26910610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mustehelmi/pseuds/mustehelmi
Summary: Five times Wade is injured and one time Peter is the injured one.
Relationships: Peter Parker/Wade Wilson
Comments: 24
Kudos: 414
Collections: Whumptober 2020





	Bear the Pain (as the Gods Intended)

**Author's Note:**

> Major whumptober prompts used:  
> Day 2 - kidnapped | Day 9 - ritual sacrifice | Day 10 - trail of blood | Day 12 - broken bones | Day 22 - drugged | Day 25 - blurred vision
> 
> Minor whumptober prompts used:  
> Day 1 - waking up restrained | Day 3 - manhandling | Day 4 - caged | Day 5 - rescue | Day 6 - "stop please" | Day 7 - carrying | Day 11 - struggling | Day 30 - ignoring an injury
> 
> Some triggers could be graphic description of Wade losing and reattaching his limbs, temporarily dying and coming back to life, attempted rape between two minor OCs, description of Peter getting cut and stabbed, being tied down, blood drinking, human sacrifice rituals . . . If blood and violence disgusts you or if you're just not generally comfortable with the type of violence you can find in a Deadpool comic/movie, then this is not for you, because Deadpool is one of the main characters and he brings violence (and lots of gory injuries) where goes
> 
> This has probably been done a dozen times before, but here's another 5+1 taking-care-of-each-other spideypool fic, written for your enjoyment

1\. The alleyway

First time Peter meets Deadpool he's on his usual patrol. It's about eight in the evening on a regular Wednesday. Swinging around Brooklyn, he catches sight of what looks like a crime scene in one of the alleyways. It’s a bloody one, probably from a bigger fight, maybe between gangs. Could be the aftermath of a shooting or a knife fight.

Peter lands on the wall at the mouth of the alley, surveying the situation before rushing in. Bloody tracks are all over the ground and the dumpsters are pushed into the middle of the passageway. Large red handprints decorate the entire side of a trash can lying on its side, its insides scattered all over. The smell is atrocious; a mix of rotting scraps of food, urine, and blood stings Peter’s sensitive nose.

At first glance, it looks like both the perpetrator and victim(s?) have gotten away before Peter’s arrival. But when he creeps closer, he hears wet breaths. Someone is lying in the dumpster.

Panic rises in Peter’s chest, because first aid is not Spider-Man’s strong suit – he catches the criminals and throws some witty insults, he stops the blood flow before it begins. He’s not a medic, not a first responder, not a trauma counsellor. But he is a helper and whoever is lying in the dumpster must need help, considering the sheer amount of blood on the street. Peter’s stomach churns in protests, but he can’t ignore the poor victim in this filthy Brooklyn alleyway.

Jumping off the wall, Peter scrambles to throw the lid open and peer into the dumpster. As expected, someone is lying among the trash inside.

It’s a man of the masculine, bulky kind, Peter notes as he reaches inside. A man with a mask and a suit that looks like his own, except with more padding. And there are weapons. Many of them.

The man is missing his whole lower half.

Peter has to be sick.

He pulls his hands back before he can grab the body (body half!? Oh gods) and doubles over against the wall. Pulling up his mask, he wretches up his meager dinner (instant ramen and two boiled eggs) into a puddle of piss, sending droplets of body fluids flying all over his Spider-Man boots.

How is the man’s heart beating? His whole lower body is missing! By all means, he should be dead.

“Nasty, huh?” a man’s voice asks from behind him, tone too jovial for the absurd situation.

Peter whirls around and stumbles back upon seeing the masked face staring at him over the rim of the dumpster. The man's hands are folded beneath his chin.

“You should be dead,” Peter gasps and wipes spit off his lips before rolling down his mask again. “How are you not dead?!”

The man shrugs (and Peter imagines how his severed body is swaying inside the dumpster, which makes him nearly dry heave). “It happens.”

“You have no legs!”

“They’ll grow back.” The man coughs, his voice raspy. “I think I punctured my left lung too.”

“I-” Peter takes a step back. “Who are you?”

“I thought you’d never ask!” The man wiggles his arm free and stretches it out for Peter to shake. “Deadpool at your service. I’m a longtime Spider-Man fan, by the way.”

“A fan?” Peter says weakly and takes Deadpool’s waiting hand in his own. The handshake is firm and warm, Deadpool’s palm large and his fingers strong around Peter’s. How does he have so much strength in his should-be-dead body? It doesn’t make sense.

Few things have made sense in Peter’s life since he became Spider-Man though. All things considering, Deadpool probably isn’t even in the top five of the strangest things he’s seen in the last six years. He does make the top ten though.

“You couldn’t imagine,” Deadpool says, still shaking Peter’s hand. “I tell people you’re my number one role model all the time, Spidey. I can call you Spidey, right? I’ve been calling you Spidey since the day I was born. It feels like we’ve known each other forever.”

“Yeah?” Peter says. Deadpool hasn’t eased his grip of Peter, their hands bobbing up and down between them.

“Mm-hmm. I knew one of these days we’d run into each other. Sure, I had planned it to be a little different from this, but might as well be now. Are you hungry? I'm a little hungry. There’s this fabulous place around the corner with the best quesadillas around here. They have rats in the kitchen, but the setting’s real romantic, trust me. Whaddaya say? Could be a date.” Deadpool laughs, too loudly. “That was a joke. Unless you don’t want it to be . . . ? Ha, got you! Obviously, it was a joke. Two jokes in a row, that’s the kind of man I am, Spidey-babes.”

Underneath his mask, Peter’s jaw is hanging open. He has no idea who Deadpool is, but clearly the man is both a mutant and a little unhinged.

“You have no legs,” he says again, because it seems important. And because Deadpool appears to have forgotten it.

“Shit.” Finally letting go of Peter’s hand, Deadpool peers down at himself, still in the dumpster. His shoulders slump and his whole upper body (which is all of his body that he has left!) sinks into the trash, his chin awkwardly hooked over the rim so he can still look at Peter. “You’re right. I’d say it hasn’t stopped me before, but I’m no liar, so.”

He looks so disappointed, even behind his mask.

“Is all of this blood yours?” Peter asks and gestures around the alley. “Or is someone else hurt too?”

“Just me.”

“And you’re not dying?”

Deadpool grins. “Never.”

Peter sighs and rubs his forehead. He has no idea who Deadpool is and how it’s possible he’s still alive without his lower body half. He’s clearly the type who, like Peter, for one reason or the other is masking his identity by wearing a suit and using an alias. All those weapons, though, indicate that his mission on the streets is a lot more violent than Peter’s. He might even be one of those villainous types that Peter keeps setting behind bars biweekly, when they either break out or the cops fail to prove them guilty. Something about him though, despite all the red flags that scream “danger, run the other way”, makes him feel safe. Endearing even. Like a puppy. Giant, injured mutant puppy. Deadpool won’t try to hurt Peter, at least as long as he has no legs.

Peter sighs. He has ten dollars in the secret pocket at his lower back. He might as well spend it on food.

“Okay,” he says. “Tell me the name of the place and I’ll go get the quesadillas.”

Deadpool cheers, raising himself once again properly over the edge of the dumpster.

“But,” Peter continues and shoves his pointer finger in Deadpool’s strangely happy face. “You’ll owe me an explanation on what’s going on with your-” he gestures at the dumpster, “-missing half.”

Deadpool flutters his eyelashes (somehow? Through the mask? Peter must be in shock, he’s not even going to ask how it’s possible, the man’s literally missing half his body and he’s still alive and talking and asking for food and proposing dates of all things) and answers coyly, “whatever you want, Spidey-boo.”

No, Peter can’t believe that he’s doing this either.

  
  
  
2\. The parking lot

Next time Peter meets Deadpool he has done some research and knows who the man is. Which is: a mercenary, an assassin, a criminal, a mutant and completely off the fucking rails.

He also has an unhealthy obsession with Spider-Man. He’s active in every fannish Spider-Man community online and sporadically sponsors zines too. Deadpool has an Instagram account where he brags about all the Spider-Man merchandise he has. Peter has seen pictures of his masked face on both underwear and bedsheets. Truly, he wonders why no one is paying _him_ any royalties for getting to use his image on their products. Spider-Man’s a starving student too, it’s not just the fan artist!

Or fanfiction writers. Deadpool’s own writing is shaky at best, but by being an active fan a budding cult has formed around him and some of those people are actually quite good at what they do. Deadpool/Spider-Man slash exists. Do these people know who Deadpool is? Or ever stop to consider how Peter feels about it?

Oh well. It’s not like he has a lot of time to hang around on the internet anyway, so he’ll just pretend he doesn’t know about all the weirdness that he can find in the real world. He has his own webs to consider.

Peter is on night patrol. He has an advanced biochemistry class at noon the next day, so he can afford to stay up longer and keep the city safe this Tuesday night. It’s unusually quiet, so he decides to take a short break on the roof of a night club, when a piercing scream echoes down the street.

“Duty calls.”

Checking that his mask is tucked down, Peter sprints off the roof and swings toward the call of help. Spider-Man’s on his way!

He drops into the small parking lot behind a carwash. A blue Volvo stands in the middle and pressed up against its side is a man in a grey, slightly worn suit. A few steps away a woman in a tiny, orange dress and high heels sits on the ground, her clutch resting on her heaving bosom. She’s crying, her mascara smeared against her cheeks and black curls knotted in a mess. As Peter approaches, she scrambles on her feet and starts wobbling toward the shelter of the surrounding buildings.

Peter would help, call the police for her, but the sight of Deadpool looming over the man in the suit forces him to instruct her to call them herself. Fumbling with her bag, she pulls out her cracked iPhone and Peter leaves her to it. 

“Hey,” he calls, jogging up to the car.

The man in the suit has his neck awkwardly bent as far back as he can as he squirms under the edge of Deadpool’s knife. He’s crying too, eyes wide and trained on the white eye holes pinning him with their unwavering gaze.

Deadpool’s voice is different than the first time they met; it’s lower and more menacing, making the hairs on the back of Peter’s neck rise in warning. His Spidey senses are on high alert, but not tingling, per se. Peter is not in danger, but the man underneath Deadpool sure is.

“You just thought you were doing her a favor, huh?” Deadpool rumbles. “Just helping the lady out, right?”

“Ye-yeah, sure, of course,” the man says, his legs trembling too much to support his weight. If Deadpool didn’t hold him up, he would be lying on the ground. “Just doing her a favor.”

“Like a real gentleman.”

The knife has dug into the man’s skin. A thin trail of blood rolls from the wound, disappearing under the collar of his dress shirt. This close, Peter can see the blood smeared all over the front of the man’s suit and Deadpool’s stomach, but he can’t see any wounds on the man. Must be Deadpool’s then.

“Well,” Deadpool says, his voice raising in volume for each syllable. “I don’t buy it.”

The man winces, fat drops of blood leaving the wound. Peter would wince too, but he steels himself, reaching Deadpool’s side.

“Hey, what’s going on?”

“Spidey!” Deadpool’s tone changes when he turns his head, though he never eases his grip of the man. “Fancy meeting you here this late at night. Me and Roger were having a chat about a favor he was extending the lady over there.” Jerking his chin, Deadpool indicates the woman hurrying away from the scene, leaving them alone in the parking lot. “But you know what I think? I think Roger’s a big fat liar.”

He turns back to the man and for a heartbeat Peter fears that Deadpool will slash his throat open right there.

Instead he pulls the knife back and starts to rap, waving the bloodied blade in the man’s face. For every shake of Deadpool’s hips, splotches of blood land from the large gashes that litter his torso on the ground under him.

“When you tell a lie, whether big or small, it causes problems for you and all, because when you do, it’ll start a fuss, you’ll hurt your friends and lose all their trust. Telling lies is telling nonsense, you’ll never hear an end from your conscience. Just be honest and tell the truth, always, because it’s the right thing to do.”

The man’s eyes are so wide they might pop out of his head. A wet patch is growing around his crotch, the smell of urine spreading around him, mixing in with the tangible fear in the air.

“Come on, you’ve never seen an episode of HipHop Harry?”

Peter touches Deadpool’s arm. “Let him go.”

“Why?” Voice dropping back from the high happy tones to low and serious, Deadpool regards the man before him. “You know what he was going to do to her.”

“I know.”

“So you forgive him?” Deadpool’s voice is hard and Peter wonders, if he says “yes”, what would happen? Would Deadpool attack him too?

Keeping his voice soft, Peter tugs at Deadpool’s arm, this time with more force. “No, but you can’t kill him. Let the police take care of it.”

The sirens approach. Two minutes, tops, and the cops are on the site. By then, Deadpool and Spider-Man need to retreat.

“Let go of him.”

Deadpool stares into Peter’s eyes. Unblinking eyehole against eyehole. In the end, he exhales loudly, his protest clear, even when he steps back and lets the man crumble next to his car. “Fine.”

Peter sighs too, but in relief. “Thank you. We need to leave before the cops see us. Can you walk?”

“What makes you think I couldn’t?” Deadpool asks, as if he didn’t have five gaping slash wounds down his torso. They jog around the carwash, past a grocery store and find a fire escape which Deadpool climbs while Peter skitters up the brick wall. Deadpool compliments his physique the whole way up.

“What happened to you?” Peter asks, ignoring every adoring word washing over him (especially those about his ass). 

“I met an old acquaintance. She wasn’t too happy to see me.”

Peter hears the grin in his voice. “And what about the man in the parking lot? Were you going to kill him?”

Deadpool rocks back on his heels. He’s not bleeding all over the place anymore, but the slashes in his suit remain. The skin beneath is pale and scarred, all over. Like on a burn or torture survivor. Peter blanches at how painful it looks and how Deadpool moves like it’s nothing. New, pink scars show where the newly healed wounds are.

“Maybe,” he sings. “Maybe not.”

Peter opens his arms wide. “You can’t go around killing people.”

“Not even the worst of the worst scum?”

“No.” Deflating at Deadpool’s unimpressed stance, Peter lowers his voice. “It’s not your job to go around and judge people. You can’t be the judge, jury and executioner. You might be . . .” Peter swallows. “Immortal and maybe you have the skills to do it, but you can’t just kill people because you want to. It’s wrong.”

“Why?”

The question is so honest, so innocent, Peter doesn’t know what to say. He wounds his arms around himself. How will he explain this to someone like Deadpool? He’s a mercenary. A criminal. No moral compass to guide him.

His thoughts go out to Aunt May and Uncle Ben, just for a flash. He sees their smiling faces, their warmth and goodness, and feels eternally grateful for the opportunity to grow up with them, be raised by them.

“It’s just wrong,” he says.

“But I did a good thing.”

“Yeah, yeah, you did. But . . . no killing people. Please?”

Deadpool doesn’t reply. Instead he pulls out his bloodied knife and wipes it off against his thigh, muttering something under his breath. Peter doesn’t want to listen.

“I have to go,” he says and jumps off the roof, not waiting for a reply.

  
  
  
3\. The abandoned shed

Somehow, some way, Peter ends up fighting the same guys as Deadpool.

They’re drug and weapons dealers, holing up in an abandoned shed-like building near the harbor. Peter wouldn’t have found out about them, if he hadn’t been hanging around the hotdog cart that he had saved from a robbery last week, taking advantage of the generous owner who had promised him a free hot dog every day for the rest of his life as long as the business stood (he is a starving university student after all). A middle-aged homeless man had been there too, talking to his friends about being kicked out of his shelter three days ago. Being threatened at gunpoint by twenty something gangsters had spooked him quite a bit.

Eavesdropping isn't polite, but in these types of cases, Peter feels no guilt for doing it. These cases don't reach the police and New York’s network of homeless people often knows if something shady goes down in the spots seldom visited by law enforcement or the usual nine-to-fivers. Another group of people who tended to pick up on signs of criminal activity around the city are teenagers with too much time on their hands, the type who like to explore or chill in abandoned buildings and closed areas.

At first, it looks like the gangsters that had thrown the man out from his spot have already moved on, but when Peter peeks inside the building through the filth-covered windows, he spots about ten men and women lounging around heaps of crates, each heavily armed. He has to sneak inside to better assess the situation and how to approach it.

And so he worms his way into the villains' nest. Rounding the building, Peter finds a hatch close to the roof. He’s able to pry it open and wriggle inside, but the roof is thin and he doesn’t dare to chance it caving in under his weight, so he sticks to the walls and the beams keeping the building together.

He counts twelve people and fifteen crates. Some of the dealers appear nervous, rubbing their hands together and stalking back and forth, lowly talking among themselves. With tensions this high, something must be about to happen. 

The doors slam open and a new character enters the scene, whistling “Always Look on the Bright Side of Life”. Peter huffs when he recognizes the newcomer; it’s Deadpool. Everyone in the building halt, their eyes trained on the one-man-show strutting in. 

Still whistling, Deadpool saunters all the way in the middle of the shed, thumbs tucked into his belt, and strikes a pose against a crate like he's the town’s coolest cowboy entering the saloon, knowing everyone looks at him and enjoying the attention. Peter curls up in the shadows, observing. If Deadpool is in cahoots with these dealers, he can’t go in now, it could mean losing, maybe even death, for him. Information gathering it is.

“Well, well, well,” Deadpool drawls.

“We told you not to come here,” the bald man standing closest to him says. “Boss said no deal.”

Righting himself, Deadpool slaps the top of a crate. “So I heard and so I forgot.”

“No deal means no deal.” The bald man puffs his chest out. “Walk outta here, man, and no one will mention this again.”

“But I want to stay.”

As if on command, every dealer picks up their weapon and points it at Deadpool.

“You ain't welcome,” the bald man says. “Leave, now.”

Humming, Deadpool appears to consider the offer and Peter grimaces behind his mask, already knowing what’s coming.

“I think not.”

The words are barely out of his mouth before he has whipped out a pair of pistols and started shooting the dealers around him. Four fall immediately, three dead and one injured where the bullet enters her shoulder instead of her head. Deadpool slides in between two crates, only appearing to shoot back at the remaining dealers who are all firing with full force at him, before sliding into his hiding hole again.

They’re all going to die if he doesn’t intervene now, Peter realizes, launching himself into the fight before his mind catches up to his body’s actions. At least he won’t have to fight against Deadpool.

His presence isn’t noted before three of the dealers are safely webbed to nearby crates and Deadpool cries out “Spider-Man” like he’s five years old and Peter has brought back the balloon he had nearly lost to the winds.

Together, they manage to subdue the rest of the dealers and once the gunfire quiets, Peter notes that Deadpool has refrained from killing anyone else aside from the initial three. They meet up in the middle, surveying the situation around them.

“Team work, heck yeah!” Deadpool holsters his weapons and playfully punches Peter’s arm. “Didn’t know you’d show up here too, sweetcakes. I would’ve worn my heels for you if I had.”

Peter sighs, his hands on his hips. “How do you know these people?”

“You could say we’ve run into each other before.” Deadpool nods to one of the seething men, who writhes in his webs. His voice drops into a graver tone that sends shivers down Peter's spine. “It wasn’t a happy occasion.”

“You’re not here for the weapons, right?” Peter asks, still a little tense. He hopes he won’t have to fight Deadpool too, just call the cops and be done with this. “Because if you are, I’ll have to-”

He doesn’t get further than that, because his Spidey senses are going off in his head, telling him to throw himself aside. Deadpool’s hand lands on his arm, shoving him. In his confusion Peter goes as bullets rain down where he stood a second ago.

The bald man has managed to twist his gun around so he can shoot from where he is webbed to the floor a few steps behind them. Peter aims the web shooter on his wrist, packaging the guy safely back into his cocoon, before turning to Deadpool.

Deadpool who stands where Peter stood, his torso littered with bullet wounds.

“Oh shit,” Peter says and holds his rebelling stomach. 

Blood soaking through his suit, Deadpool staggers a few steps to the left, before gaining his balance once more and shaking his head like a dog shaking off the water after a bath.

“Whew,” he says and starts poking at the wounds in his flesh. “It never gets any less weird.”

“Don’t touch them. ” Peter catches his wrist, still fighting to keep down the hotdog from earlier. 

Deadpool sounds surprised. “Why not? Want to try? It’s like putting your fingers through the holes of a Swiss cheese, except way wetter and warmer. Oh, here comes the bullet!”

As he predicts, a bullet clinks upon falling on the floor, pushed out of Deadpool’s belly. More follow it at a steady pace. All of them going "clink clink" as they fall. 

Peter swallows down the need to vomit at the sight. Deadpool just stands there, observing the ammunition rolling about his feet.

“Those were meant for me,” Peter says in the silence following the last bullet leaving Deadpool’s flesh.

“Yeah.” Deadpool shrugs. “Better me than you. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve heard spectacular accounts of your super healing powers, but they’ve got nothing on mine, honeybunch. This doesn't even count as a scratch. Maybe an itch.”

Peter swallows again and picks up a cheap-looking flip phone that a dealer must’ve lost during the fight. He snaps it open and types in the emergency number, before grabbing Deadpool’s elbow and dragging him out of the shed.

Outside, he looks up and into Deadpool’s masked face. “Thank you,” he says.

“My pleasure,” Deadpool chirps and bows so deep the top of his mask almost brushes the ground, his hands doing intricate and asymmetric swirls at his sides. When he straightens himself, Peter can sense a grin on his face.

“Wanna get tacos now? All this crime fighting makes me hungry.”

Peter agrees.

  
  
  
4\. The Mexican diner

Deadpool’s given name is Wade Winston Wilson, Peter finds. They run into each other at least once a month, often every week if Wade is in town, which he has been more regularly since they’ve gotten on friendly-ish terms, Peter suspects. Wade hasn’t exactly been subtle about the huge hero-worship-like crush he has on Spider-Man and about half the time Peter has this nagging feeling that their meetings aren’t as coincidental as they seem. He can’t prove his suspicions right though, so he might as well enjoy the encounters when they happen.

Wade asks to take selfies with Peter in his suit as well as initiate impromptu photoshoots where he tries to trick Peter into one suggestive pose or the other. A few times he even brings an expensive looking camera, which Peter drools over, but when he lets slip that he used to photograph as a hobby before his old Canon broke, Wade gifts Peter all his gear. It’s terrible, but in the end Peter is forced to accept, and he can’t help getting teary-eyed when he plays around with the settings and takes some test shots in his dingy apartment after patrol. He missed photographing, one of his biggest passions aside from his studies and being Spider-Man. And when he checks up on Wade’s Spider-Man fan accounts, he discovers that the photos that he has uploaded of Peter are in fact quite flattering. His Instagram page is one of the best collections of Spider-Man photos maintained and the poses are mostly innocent. If Wade has any lewder shots of Peter, he’s not sharing them with the world.

Mostly, Peter and Wade patrol the streets together. Afterward they might eat out together, usually Mexican, street food or junk food. Peter doesn’t like the feeling of being in debt to anyone, so he casually tries to suggest the cheapest spots he knows, but Wade won’t have any of it. More often than not, he will order enough food to feed a small army of beefy mercenaries like himself, pay for it all, then insist Peter takes half of it because Wade couldn’t possibly finish it all. Which is bullshit, Peter knows – if his belly is a bottomless pit never satisfied no matter how much he eats, then Wade’s must be the same, if not worse, because of his superior healing powers. His hunger forces him to choke down his pride though and graciously accept Wade's kind offers of getting to eat enough to genuinely feel full. It only ever happens with Wade anymore, now that Aunt May has passed and doesn’t cook Peter big Sunday dinners anymore.

It’s a Friday night and Peter and Wade “accidentally” meet again. Peter is rescuing a cat stuck in a tree when Wade pops out from nowhere with his phone in hand, snapping a million shots of Peter and the hissing cat from all thinkable angles. When the cat’s (Mrs. Whiskers’) owner, an old man dressed in a tweed suit, takes the still hissing cat into his arms, Wade slides up to Peter’s side and asks if he wants company on his patrol. Not having seen Wade in the past two weeks, Peter accepts.

Around ten o'clock, Wade complains about feeling nauseous from his too low blood sugar. Peter's stomach rumbles in sympathy, so he lets Wade take him to a small Mexican place in one of the more restless neighborhoods.

“Pick a romantic spot, Spidey, I’ll be right there,” Wade says and skips over to the counter behind which an old woman works on her crossword puzzle.

Peter rolls his eyes behind his mask and takes a corner seat in hopes of not drawing any further attention to himself. The restaurant is empty, save for a couple of teenagers who look high out of their minds, though they do give Peter a few curious glances. As long as every passerby outside the window won’t make a show of ogling him, Peter will call it peaceful. 

The woman at the counter takes Wade’s long and rambling order with patient boredom, clearly having dealt with him before. Once he’s done, he fills two large glasses with cola and starts looking around for Peter.

That’s when the doors to the restaurant bangs open and in strides two men with guns held high. Both wear ski masks with holes only for eyes and mouths, but Peter would estimate the aggressors to be in their late twenties or thirties. The one walking in first hisses something in Spanish to his friend, who aims his gun at the woman behind the counter. She frowns with annoyance rather than fear.

Ski mask man number one starts speaking, probably doling out demands to the lady behind the counter. She replies, her tone angry, as she waves her hands around. The man shrugs and replies, jerking his weapon to get her moving. Still angry, the woman opens the cash register and pulls out a small plastic bag to load the money in. Wade opens his mouth, which makes ski mask man number two point his weapon at Wade and go on a rapid rant, to which Wade answers in turn.

Peter wishes he would’ve taken Spanish in high school. Maybe he should take it now, as extra, while he’s still in university, but his time management is already shit and adding more courses to his workload sounds like he would be sleeping three hours only every other night instead of every night. He’s not sure even he could do it.

So far, he’s been undetected by the robbers. Wade stands by the counter, drinks in hand, and Peter’s about to get up and sneak up to his side. To deescalate the situation, it would be wisest to incapacitate both ski maskers at once, just to be safe, considering the way they’re waving their guns around.

But before he can act, Wade steps in to shield the woman behind the counter. He sounds angry, as do the ski mask men who are still debating him. Whatever they’re talking about, it’s getting heated. Ski mask man two is gripping his weapon like his life depends on it.

The men want Wade to move, that much is clear. He refuses to budge, growling out his answer to ski mask man one. Ski mask man two cries out in a mix of outrage and desperation and opens fire.

Now, the woman behind the counter screams. Wade slumps, the drinks falling from his limp arms, a large puddle of cola and blood forming around his lifeless body. Ski mask man two is still yelling, while his friend goes into shock. The same goes for the two stoned teenagers, frozen at their table not too far away from Wade.

Peter shoots up from his seat, taking advantage of ski mask man one’s frozen state. He webs the gun out of his hands and makes a quick job of rolling him into a web burrito, which he pushes to sit in one of the chairs. The other ski mask man gets the same treatment, except Peter personally takes his gun away from him. He’s mentally unstable, still yelling and ranting about whatever, and even after Peter webs his mouth shut, the muffled anger continues, but muted.

He helps the old woman clutching at her chest into the seat behind the counter and tells the teenagers to call the police, in case no one has reported the commotion going on yet. They do so wordlessly, while Peter crouches to examine Wade’s body.

It’s warm to the touch and Peter wonders if his skin ever cools when he dies. Probably not. Already his healing abilities are pushing out the bullet that killed Wade, the one in the middle of his forehead. Wade stays unconscious even when the wound starts to knit itself together and the other bullets start to emerge.

“What the fuck is going on with him?” one of the teenagers asks.

“The police are on the way,” the other says and tugs on his friend’s sleeve. “Let’s go.”

Peter looks up at the woman behind the counter. “We should leave too. Will you be okay?”

She nods, holding her hand to her chest. From the kitchen, a short man in an apron and chef’s hat peeks out, his face white. 

Peter grabs Wade under the arms and pulls him with him, leaving a wide, bloody cola trail after him. Once outside, he hoists Wade over his shoulder and swings them away, to a flat roof one block down.

It’s a horrible few minutes, to sit next to Wade’s unbreathing, warm body, covered in his blood. Peter rolls up his mask so he can breathe in fresh air. By now, he should be used to seeing Wade injured, but he will probably never be rid of the slight panic in these kinds of situations. What if this is the one time Wade doesn’t wake up? If his healing powers fail him and he dies? What will Peter do then?

He rolls up Wade’s mask too, to help him take his first breath after this considerable break. The skin on Wade’s face is as scarred as it is everywhere else, but Peter has grown used to it. At first, Wade was a little shy about it, but Peter made sure not to make him uncomfortable revealing parts of himself. No one deserves to feel insecure about their looks.

“Come on,” Peter whispers. His thumb touches Wade’s jaw, leaving a blood smear behind. “Wake up, Wade.”

It’s absurd, but Peter almost wants to hug him when Wade draws in a wheezy breath and sits up with such force his chin collides with Peter’s forehead, knocking him onto his butt.

  
  
  
5\. Wade’s home

Unlikely as it is, Peter and Wade become friends. Wade has a few safe houses in New York, but he keeps moving in and out of them, selling them and buying new ones – or not, in case he spends all his money on something else. At worst he goes from penniless to super rich and back in a day, giving Peter whiplash. If he had even a quarter of the money Wade has . . . but no.

Strangely, Wade always has enough money to buy food for them. One night they’re eating pizza, their feet hanging over the edge of a roof when Wade remembers an offshore bank account he hasn’t used in two years and decides to check it immediately to make sure it’s not just something the voices in his head are making up. It’s not – and he has quite the savings on there.

“Maybe buy a more permanent place,” Peter says, half-joking. “So I can visit you.”

“You can visit me now,” Wade says with a grin, but Peter shakes his head, biting into another slice of pepperoni pizza.

“I can't, because I never know which place to check. Or if it’s even your place anymore. Once I slipped through the window to your ‘safest house’,” Peter makes quotation marks with his fingers, “I almost gave a heart attack to this old lady watching Jeopardy.”

Wade hums, cupping his chin. After a moment of thought he shines up.

“You’re right, Petey,” he says, because at this point he knows Spider-Man’s civilian name is Peter, and he has sworn on his love for guns and chimichangas to never reveal it to anyone, gleefully explaining how it’s verifiably impossible to torture information out of him, “I need to buy a better apartment to hang out in. So you can visit!”

And so he does. 

Once Wade gives his address he starts to whine about Peter visiting every time they meet up and so to halt his moaning, Peter would come over and hang out. At some point Wade doesn't even have to whine anymore – Peter would just pop in and they’d play some video games on Wade’s consoles, Wade would cook for them or they’d laze around watching whatever was on TV.

Peter doesn’t have many friends and those he does have, he sees infrequently. Wade more or less becomes his best friend, even though he still hasn’t seen Peter’s face from the nose up. The day he discovers Peter’s short, brown locks sticking out at his neck is a day of celebration. It’s a weird friendship, but it works. Wade even makes an effort to keep the apartment clean-ish and livable after Peter threatens to never step foot inside again unless he makes improvements. It’s a nice apartment after all, better than the one Peter pays rent for. Much more central too.

Which is why, sometimes, Peter crashes at Wade’s even when Wade isn’t home.

It’s one of those nights that Peter has been on a long patrol and he’s exhausted and starving and Wade’s apartment is closer than his own. He knows he should go home and not impose on Wade, but Wade’s sleeping schedule is even more erratic than Peter’s, and it’s only half past midnight, so he’s probably still up anyway. Besides, Peter’s stomach is rumbling and all he has in his kitchen is a bottle of ketchup, two eggs and two slices of stale bread. Wade’s kitchen on the other hand, that one has never seen an empty day.

Peter knocks on Wade’s living room window, but sees no lights or movements inside, so he lets himself in. Wade is out, so Peter helps himself to the lasagna leftovers and self-made chocolate cookies in the fridge, after which he lies down on the couch for a five minute nap.

He wakes up to a crash and flails with his limbs so wide he slides off the couch. Wade curses somewhere behind him and Peter twirls up and around to see what’s happening.

Light floods the living room when Wade flicks the switch. For a second, they stare at each other, before Wade groans and tips to the left, falling onto his side with a heavy thump.

“Nice to see your pert ass around here,” Wade greets, voice pitched high like usual, but distinct pain bleeding through.

“What happened to you?” Peter asks, not up for any games.

On a closer look, Wade appears to be missing his entire left arm, ripped clean off his shoulder and his right arm from the elbow down, and the leg below his right knee barely hangs onto his body by some sinews. His right forearm, with glove still on, is wedged into his armpit.

“Found this gang harassing a lady in a short skirt and one of them had a little mutant in him.”

“Did she get away?”

“Yeah. Pull my mask off my face? My nose itches.”

Peter complies, kneeling next to Wade’s battered body. He wedges the severed arm out of Wade’s hold and presses it against his bleeding stump. Wade’s healing abilities latch onto the limb and start merging them together again, momentarily prioritizing the arm over any other wounds. When Wade concentrates, he can wiggle the pointer finger a bit already.

“Be right back,” Peter says and dashes off to find some towels and warm water. Even though he’s seen Wade in terrible shape before, even dead, he still panics a little every time. It just gets easier to deal with, knowing what to do. He’s seen Wade grow limbs back before – it’s possible and his normal. The sight of flesh and blood still feels wrong to Peter, especially since it’s not his own and he has no way of knowing how much pain Wade hides from him.

Wade has three clean towels in his linen closet, the rest lying around in bloody heaps around the apartment. He has a washing machine in the bathroom, but uses it rarely. Peter does most of Wade’s laundry (while washing his own clothes on Wade’s water bill) and he’s the one who persuaded Wade to get the machine too. If it was up to Wade, he would use the same dirty clothes until they stink too much even for him and then buy new ones, if he has the money for it.

Towels under one arm and a basin of warm water under the other, Peter settles back down on the floor by Wade. He uses one towel to cushion Wade’s bleeding shoulder and the other to wrap around his hanging leg. Dipping the last fresh towel in the water, he wipes off the worst of the blood to inspect any further damage to Wade’s person. He finds two bullet holes and one bigger hole that looks like from a small knife in the suit, but the wounds themselves have healed.

“Didn’t want to waste their bullets on me,” Wade says when Peter pokes at one of the holes. He thuds his head against the floor. “Good thing too, I hate mending this suit.”

“I hear you,” Peter mumbles and dabs at Wade’s leg wound. It doesn’t bleed much anymore, but he can _see_ the flesh inside him working to knit itself back together, the skin should grow back soon and then Peter won’t have to watch the miracle happen before his eyes.

He feels guilty of finding Wade’s healing so disgusting. Most people would do anything to see the people close to them be able to bounce back from their injuries the way Wade does. Peter tries to focus on the gratefulness as he rights the hanging leg and pushes the two pieces together, helping Wade’s healing along.

“You don’t have to stay here and do this for me,” Wade says in a soft voice.

“I’m not going to leave you lying on your living room floor to bleed like this.” Peter grimaces beneath his mask. “Is that the sort of person you take me for? The kind who just abandons others when they’re hurt?”

“No, of course not!” Wade’s reaction is so strong, Peter startles back. “You know I think the world of you, Petey. You’re Spider-Man, you always do what’s good and right.”

“You can’t just say that.”

But Wade keeps looking at him like he hung the moon and it sets all sorts of warm feelings into motion inside Peter's body and mind, the most prominent of them being embarrassment.

“Come on, I’ll help you to the couch.”

“Oh no, this hot bod is so heavy with muscles, you wouldn’t be able to lift a limb, I- hey! I said, I’m too heavy.”

Peter does his best to convey how unimpressed his glare is from beneath the white eyeholes in his Spider-Man mask. “I’ve got super strength, Wade.”

“I know,” Wade purrs and Peter should drop him for his lewd expression alone, but he doesn’t. Instead, he carries Wade’s body to the couch and settles him down carefully.

“Is this good?”

Wade waves his stump of an arm around. “Yeah, it’s fine.”

“Is there anything else I can do for you?”

The corner of Wade’s tongue pokes out of his mouth. “Don’t worry so much. Put on the TV, watch a movie. Or go home. This ain’t my first rodeo, baby-boo, I’ll be as good as new in a few hours.”

For whatever reason, he chortles at this, and whispers something to himself. A private Deadpool joke then, that Peter wouldn’t get anyway.

And Wade is right, there’s not much else Peter can do. In time, Wade’s body will heal itself and he’ll be up and about as usual again. But leaving your friend when they miss more than half their limbs is not something friends do to each other, at least not good friends.

And Peter wants to be a good friend to Wade.

“I can’t leave you.”

“Then rest, maybe?” Wade wriggles his eyebrows and raises his severed arm. “Crawl into daddy’s arms?”

Peter snorts loudly and Wade breaks out laughing.

He settles into the armchair next to Wade’s couch. It’s covered in dried blood and has bullet sized holes in it.

“I’ll take it,” Peter mutters and curls up in it, Wade’s monologue about bees, the idiocy of “vegan honey” and the importance of pollinators sending him into a pleasant, dreamless sleep.

  
  
  
  


\+ 1 Sacrificial altar

Peter wakes up with a pounding headache. His whole body pulses like a sore bruise, his muscles cramp and his wrists and ankles are bound with something cold and heavy. Blinking his eyes open, everything is a blur. Light filters through somewhere far away, soft and yellow, but the shadows around him are too heavy for him to make out anything. He’s surrounded by something, these dark straight lines that fill his vision . . .

Bars. Prison bars. He groans and rolls his head backwards, as far as it goes with the pain burning behind his eyes to confirm his suspicions. He’s inside a cage.

He needs to focus. What’s the last thing he remembers? Someone screaming like they’re dying, him jumping off a roof, swinging towards the cry. They’re yelling, sounding teary. It’s a high-pitched voice, probably a young woman’s, he had thought. “Help, someone, please help me,” she yelled. Peter swung as fast as he could.

Momentarily, he loses the memory. It returns with a woman. She was in an alley, surrounded by a mixed bunch of people, all turned on her. Her lips were painted red and her hair shone golden, the locks perfectly curled. She looked ethereal and her eyes were wide and purple. Contact lenses, Peter had concluded. In the memory, she cried out again, begging for his help.

His Spidey senses warned him of danger, blaring inside his head. Something was wrong with the scene, but he didn’t realize what, until something shot out and stung his left thigh. He swayed, unable to stay standing. The warning bells drowned out everything, but the woman’s cold command. A red dart protruded from his leg.

“Restrain him.”

Why had all the people surrounding her only stared at her? Because they hadn’t been threatening her at all, but accompanied her, to help her take him.

Peter groans with the memory, letting his eyes fall shut. He’s tired and in pain, curled up in a cage too small for him. He had been ambushed and taken. How long had he been missing? Did his university lecturers know to worry of his absence from classes and at what point would New York City notice Spider-Man disappearing?

If he had the strength, he could try to break out of this cage, but when he tugs at the shackles around his wrists, his arms flop to the floor. They must keep him drugged with something strong enough to subdue even his mutant powers.

“He’s awake,” a man’s voice says from somewhere. Peter’s too tired to open his eyes or turn his head to look who is there.

“Why’re ya doin’ this?” he slurs, but no one answers.

Peter recognizes the screaming woman’s voice when she speaks. “Good, lay him on the altar.”

The charring sound of metal grinding against metal makes his ears ring and he tries to raise his restrained arms to his ears, but is too weak to get anywhere. Rough hands grab at his thighs, hips and chest, pulling him out of the cage. He’s still in his Spider-Man suit, save for his mask and gloves. His fingers and cheek drag against the cold ground, scratching open his skin.

“Bad touch,” he slurs when the man manhandling him like a ragdoll runs his hands over his backside. He gets a laugh for his troubles.

“No such thing.”

The man carries him for a minute or two or several, Peter is too disoriented to keep count. He tries to pry his eyes open, to get a clue where he is. A tiny part of him is panicking, but the majority of him is indifferent toward the situation. He’s exhausted, let him rest. Does it matter where he is? The panicked part of him insists it does matter, but it’s not like he could do anything about it even if he knew.

He’s arranged onto something that feels like a stone counter. His arms stretched above him, his shackled wrists fixed in place. His ankles are freed, but only for a second, before they’re spread and secured as well. Belly up, Peter lies vulnerable on what must be the altar.

A cult, the panicked part of his brain theorizes, a cult that knew of Peter’s super powers and had a drug to nullify his abilities. Lying on the altar, surrounded by a cult could never be a good thing, but his muscles stay slack. He just wants to rest.

“He’s so beautiful,” the woman says close to his ear. Peter forces his eyes open, staring into the shadows above him. A sharp nail trails down his cheek. “Who knew a man could be so beautiful?”

The nail disappears and Peter shuts his eyes again. The woman’s voice takes on a commanding tone.

“Gather everyone, he’s ready for the ritual. Soon, we will all have what he has, as the gods intended.”

“Yes, priestess.”

Peter dozes in the quiet that follows. He senses the priestess’ presence; how she circles him, caresses his hair, runs her fingertips across his limbs, hums a tune he doesn’t recognize. Something about her both alarms and soothes him.

More people shuffle around him, a low murmur coming with them, their tones awed.

“He is pretty, isn’t he?” the priestess says, unearned pride in her voice. “To gain a precious gift, we must sacrifice something equally precious. It is a pity Spider-Man is intended to die for the good of this world, but we must respect the decisions our betters make. Remember that it was a mistake none of us possess our true powers yet. We must right this wrong, as the gods wish us to do. He must die, so we can live out our destinies.”

Okay, so it doesn’t sound all that good of a time to rest right now, not from Peter’s perspective. He pulls at the shackles around his hands, groaning when pain shoots through his limbs. Toughing it out seems impossible, so he gives up. Lying limp before his enemies, ready for the taking.

_Sorry, you can only contact the Spider-Man spirit during business hours. Please try again later._

Peter snorts. Shouldn’t Spider-Man’s business hours be around the clock?

“Take your places,” the priestess orders. “We must begin.”

“No,” Peter says. It sounds like a whine in his own ears and goes ignored. The cult starts chanting, the priestess’ voice ringing loud in his ears. Their voices rise, growing louder and more disorienting. Something cold touches his skin and tears his suit into pieces, cool air hitting his bare chest.

“At ease,” the priestess whispers, her breath fanning his face. He’s breathing shallowly, almost like he’s hyperventilating, but his brain observes the rest of his body lazily, uncaringly. 

The cold edge touches his ribs again, resting there for a heartbeat as the chanting grows around him like a beast, twisting in the air, growling and howling and whining and hissing all at the same time.

Cutting his skin, the priestess announces, “step forward and drink.”

Peter forces his eyes open, gasping for air. He can’t breathe, he’s in pain. The chanting monster swirls around him, his chest and lungs caving in on themselves. A wet and slimy tongue licks at his wound. When it disappears, the priestess cuts into him again, beaconing the next person to “step forward and drink”, and they do.

Maybe if he wasn’t so drugged, Peter would’ve realized begging won't get him anywhere. But he is drugged and weak and his whole body screams for it to stop. He needs the chanting to quiet down and his body to fall into blissful rest, not to be kept awake in this torturous state.

“Please stop,” he gasps. “It hurts.”

“It will be over soon,” the priestess crows and touches his hair. “The pain is yours to bear, so we can thrive. Step forward and drink.”

He grunts when another cut opens across his chest. How many more until he passes out? Many, his experience informs him, flitting through memories of past hurts he’s bore. Wriggling in his restraints does nothing and his gaze refuses to focus on the ceiling above him. A wayward tear rolls down his cheek and the detached part of him wonders what he’s crying about while another is ashamed for his weakness. Whatever they gave him, it feels like his very soul is splitting into pieces and he’s not Peter anymore, each part looking at the other with confusion and disdain.

Someone cries out, far away, but loud enough even for the people around him to pick up on it. The priestess hesitates.

“Who intrudes on our moment of glory?” she hisses. “I told you to keep it under wraps!”

“And we have, but-”

More screaming. It’s piercing, distressed and full of terror, and Peter wants to help and back away, because he’s not fit for saving anyone in his state. His captors are about to sacrifice Peter Parker, not Spider-Man; Spider-Man is not available, not present enough to save anyone, not even himself.

A whoop follows the scream, the unrest rising among the priestess and her followers. The chanting has subsided to a mere mumble.

Peter’s thoughts flicker to Wade and he holds onto it, visualizing his Deadpool mask and naked face side-by-side. No one else he knows would sound so happy about making people he thinks deserves it scream. It’s the hope in his heart though, because why would Wade be . . . wherever they are?

He wants to ask if they’re underground or in a cave. The ceilings are high at least and the air humid and cool. His eyes still refuse to work. But his captors are otherwise busy with no time to entertain him.

“Priestess, maybe we should move the ritual-”

“No! I’ve waited too long for this. We will see it through, no matter what. I deserve my powers and I will have them. You can run along if you’re scared, but I will not. Who knows if we can find anyone as suitable as him ever again? Spider-Man is what we need. If you’re staying, keep praying!”

They do as they’re told, their chanting rising in volume again, though shakier and more urgent than before. The priestess resumes cutting, each slash hurting more than before. She’s careless in her hurry.

“Drink, drink,” she says and Peter feels queasy at the eagerness of her followers lapping his blood. “Soon, he’s ready.”

A crashing sound interrupts them. The priestess sounds panicked.

“Don’t let him reach the sacrifice, I will finish the ritual!”

“It might be too soon, priestess,” the man who had laid Peter out on the altar says. “There won’t be enough power for everyone-”

“I don’t care, I will have my own share. I deserve this!”

Peter tries to twist in his shackles, to see what’s happening around him, but it’s a blur of color. Above him, he catches a glint of metal and tries to latch onto it. For a second, he can see white, delicate hands with long purple nails squeezing an ornate dagger, then he loses his focus again. The dagger glimmers and flashes out of his field of vision.

And straight into his guts. Peter moans when the initial numbness bleeds into pain that spreads in every direction around the wound. This is the worst day he’s had since Aunt May’s death.

“This is meant for me,” the priestess declares and pulls out the dagger, her golden head bowing over Peter. If only he were allowed to pass out, but the super in him refuses to let his consciousness go.

She doesn’t get as far as to stick her tongue into the wound before the chaos arrives to her side. It sounds like her breath is slammed out of her lungs, like a balloon squeezed empty again, followed by a crash.

“I’m going to call you a crazy bitch because you deserve it,” a familiar voice says. Peter blinks.

“Wade?” he rasps out.

“It’s me, baby boy. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you’re into some pretty heavy kink here.”

The Deadpool mask appears before his eyes and next to it a waving gun.

“Hang in there, I’ll get you outta this shithole.”

Wade disappears again. He’s quipping something to someone (not Peter), before his tone turns murderous. His speech is fast and muffled and so Peter doesn’t try to make out the individual words. Hearing Wade’s voice, talking about anything and everything, is in itself a comfort. Even though the priestess is shrieking her replies to him, before going abruptly silent.

After that, the chaos calms down. Peter would’ve dozed off again if it wasn’t for the pain. Wade bends over him, his face close to Peter’s. 

“The coast is clear.”

Peter groans. “Finally.”

“I thought something funny was going on, could feel it in my kidneys. The streets were restless without you keeping us all in check . . . Some druggies had seen you being taken out . . . Good thing I know how to sniff out secrets . . ."

The shackles break one by one around Peter’s limbs. He stretches them, but can’t get far, the pain in his chest and stomach area too overwhelming to his oversensitive and disoriented senses. Wade prattles on, but Peter doesn’t have the energy to listen, only hold onto the warm feeling of his presence.

“Can you sit up?” Wade asks.

“I can walk.”

But when Peter tries to blindly sit up, his shaky arms give out under him. He would’ve hit his head on the altar if Wade hadn’t wedged his arm underneath him.

“I’ll just carry you or we’ll never get out of here.”

Peter doesn’t protest, his pride drugged enough for him not to insist on handling the escape on his own.

Just this once, he can allow himself to lie in Wade’s arms as he gets them to safety.

“I think they drugged me. My powers . . .”

“Super sedatives.” Wade sounds angry. “Probably something experimental. We’ll have to look into it when you’re better again. Can’t have all the wrong people getting their hands on this stuff. No offence, but you’re limper than a noodle. No one could fight crime in this shape.”

Careful hands slip around Peter’s thighs and shoulder, before lifting him up. His face is mushed up against Wade’s sweaty, gunpowder-smelling suit.

“The dagger,” he mumbles.

“I know, sweetums, I’ll take care of it. You look terrible, but don’t worry, I’ll patch you up in no time. It’s all going to be alright.”

Peter inhales and closes his eyes. A veil of security falls over him, covering him from head to toe. Maybe it’s the drugs in his system or the relief of surviving what could have been a slow and painful death, but in that moment, he fully believes Wade, doesn’t doubt the goodness in him for a second.

“I know,” he says. 

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoyed this fic, please leave me feedback! I post stories because part of the fanfic experience for me is to interact with my readers. If I didn't want to hear from you, I'd put my stuff on a memory stick and leave it on a shelf
> 
> I thank my lovely friend Robyn for beta'ing this for me ♥
> 
> I'm [sweetsoursugarcube](https://sweetsoursugarcube.tumblr.com/) on tumblr in case you want to reach out to me or keep up with my writing


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